


Of Love Lives, Parties and Pie

by NothingSoDivine



Series: Transstuck [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Agender Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gamzee had neglectful parents so he got put into foster care, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pale Porn, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Shameless, Trans Male Character, WUZZLES!, but that's kind of irrelevant to the story so WTF ever, like big time, so fucking pale, utterly shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Gamzee Makara: agender, asexual, demiromantic. DMAB, uses he/him or sometimes they/them pronouns.<br/>Karkat Vantas: transgender, homosexual, panromantic. DFAB, uses he/him pronouns.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Of Love Lives, Parties and Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Gamzee Makara: agender, asexual, demiromantic. DMAB, uses he/him or sometimes they/them pronouns.  
> Karkat Vantas: transgender, homosexual, panromantic. DFAB, uses he/him pronouns.

"Gamzee Makara, for the last fucking time, get your skinny ass over here before I drag it," Karkat snapped in Spanish, shouting to be heard over the pounding bass.

"Hey now, brother, no motherfucking need to be getting all snippy," Gamzee soothed in reply, slouching across the darkened room, his lanky form clearing a path through the mass of people. Reaching Karkat's side, he stooped down so they could talk more easily. "Now, what's a brother gone to all the motherfucking trouble to get his party on for? My little Karbro don't get his party on for nothing, sure as God made little green motherfucking apples. What's got your pretty little knickers in a motherfucking twist?"

Catching Gamzee's scrawny wrist in his hot hand, Karkat turned and dragged Gamzee out of the room and into the hallway. Karkat didn't know the people hosting the party - hell, Gamzee probably didn't either, he mused - but it was a townhouse, and most townhouses had the same layout, so he could make his way around. Tugging Gamzee after him, he barged his way out the front door and into the breezy evening air.

"I'm taking you home," he said, not bothering to switch to English.

"Which one?" Gamzee asked languidly, barely having to walk at all to keep up with Karkat's comparatively tiny strides.

"Mine," Karkat replied.

"Can I ask a brother why?" Gamzee mused.

"You don't need to stay out any longer," Karkat decided authoritatively.

Gamzee smiled, a wide, lazy grin that reeked of weed. "If you ever need to talk, I'm always right the motherfuck here for you," he said. "You know you only gotta motherfucking ask."

"I don't need to talk, Gamzee," Karkat lied. "You just need to get out of here."

Gamzee just grinned and let Karkat drag him along the street.

* * *

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are panicking.

You have five best friends in all the universe. One is Terezi; she's been your best friend since before you can remember. One is Sollux; pretty much ditto. One is Kanaya; if you didn't love her to pieces, you'd quite simply not exist any more. Those three are great. It's the other two that are concerning you at the moment.

One is Dave. Dave, who you’ve had a crush on since you moved into the building across from his three years ago. Dave, who figured out that you were trans before you had even considered telling him. Dave, who may be able to do a whole lot wrong but will work his fingers to the bone trying to fix it. Dave, who you had sex with early this morning.

One is Gamzee. Gamzee, who you love more than anyone else in this world. Gamzee, who you have this irrational urge to keep safe, who swears even more than you do and doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of him. Gamzee, who is currently leaning all 6’6” of his lanky frame against the back of your building door and smiling through a stoned haze. His feet are bare on the tile flooring, you notice vaguely; his shoes must still be back at the party you dragged him out of. He smells like he always does, like dew and weed, and you’re not sure when it became a comfort but you’re already feeling less panicky than you were a minute ago. You can’t even remember what he smelled like before he started smoking, and that thought always makes you feel sad. It had never even crossed your mind that that would be something you’d want to keep in your memory.

He’s still smiling, lounging against the door with that lazy smile, and you know that he knows that you want to pour your heart out to somebody and he’s the one you go to. But you also know that he knows that you’re not going to open up that easily.

“I thought I told you to stay away from those parties,” you scold in Spanish.

He shrugs languidly. “I guess you motherfucking did, brother,” he mumbles. He has this sort of Texan drawl that bleeds over into his Spanish, and you try valiantly not to show how much tension it’s leaching from your shoulders, but he probably knows anyways. He’s always been able to read you eerily well.

You put your hands on your hips – you don’t even remember when that started being a habit, because you can clearly remember doing it to Terezi when you were a kid, playing Dragon Vs. Knight back in Santa Marta. “Well?” you ask. “Do you have an excuse?”

Gamzee shrugs lazily. “Nope.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “The least you could do is take the time to come up with a decent excuse!” you exclaim, and you can hear how loud you’re getting but you don’t give a fuck. “If you’re going to ignore what I tell you to do, and just do whatever the fuck you want despite my advice, you could at least make an effort to come up with a decent excuse for your bullshit apathetically-self-destructive behavior! Do you have any idea how much I worry about you?” you screech. “If I don’t hear from you before I go to bed, I worry myself to sleep because what if you’re at some party and you get arrested? Or what if you get busted for growing pot, or – _hey!_ ” you yelp as he picks you up by the waist and tosses you over his shoulder.

“Shoosh the motherfuck up,” Gamzee murmurs, papping your ass, and your mouth falls shut with a startled squeak.

“See, brother, you need to hakuna your motherfuckin’ tatas,” he continues, taking the narrow stairs two at a time - fucker doesn't even look like he's stretching when he does that, it pisses you the fuck off - and pulling your key out of your jeans pocket. “And I know just the thing.”

"My tatas are perfectly fucking hakuna'd, thank you very much," you grouch, but he ignores you, knocking your converse – which you didn’t even bother to lace up before leaving the house – off your feet. Carrying you through your apartment, he drops you down on your bed, then fwumps down next to you and rolls over so his head is resting in your lap. His hair, as always, is a fucking mess.

You settle your legs over his shoulders, sit back against your headboard, work your fingers into his knotted hair, and start to talk.

* * *

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and life is good. Life is good to a wicked bitchtits level; on a scale of one to ten, life is pretty hard-pressed to give a motherfuck about physics right now, 'cause it's got its soar on like no motherfucker's business, way up into the three-motherfucking-digitosphere, and it ain't coming down any time in the forseeable motherfucking future.

Your best motherfucking bro in the whole of existence and anywhere else in any other existence that's got the gall to be up and motherfucking existing has got his pretty motherfucking fingers worked knuckle-deep into the shithive maggots motherfucking disaster that is your home-grown skullsock, working out all the knots and tangles and other motherfucking messes. His legs are draped over your shoulders so your head is in his lap as he sits against the headboard and works his beautiful motherfucking miracles on your hair. His thighs are just enough squish on either side of your jaw to be comfortable, and his pretty little feet are just at the right spot to be reached-up-to and rubbed if you were thataways inclined.

You knew when he barged his cute little ass into that party that he wanted to talk. You had a feeling, and when it comes to your Karbro, your feelings are never ever motherfucking wrong, no mater what anyone else says about the two of you - that it's unnatural, or wrong, or motherfucking gay, against the good Lord's wishes. You don't know what it is, but it's not wrong, you know it. And when you felt like he had something he wanted to talk about, that was right too, and you knew it. You knew it even before he started yelling about going to those parties, which is Karbro-speak for "Let me play with your hair and spill all my secrets." So you did your duty as his best motherfucking bro and let him rant.

Right now, he's not saying anything interesting - he's still going on about that stupid party, which you don't really give a fuck about because you're still a little fuzzy-brained and you want to see his heart painted in big red splashes across the walls of your mind so you reach up, rub his feet, and his mouth shorts out with a pretty little sigh.

"Tell me about your day," you say. It's what you've always said, it's the only thing that'll get the message across. It's the key to his motherfucking words, and you use it almost as much as the key to his flat.

"Well, yesterday I was over at Dave's house, you know that," he starts, and you listen to every word because he's talking now, this is what you wanted to hear so you can't just up and motherfucking miss it. "We played video games, he kicked my ass, you texted me at nine-thirty like you promised, so I stopped worrying."

You make a go-on noise in your throat, dig the pads of your thumbs into his arches. He makes a startled oh-that-was-good noise back, and keeps talking.

"We played more video games, he kicked my ass some more, repeat ad nauseum until about midnight, where he wins again, I throw a pillow at him, we have a brief tickle-fight and I head to bed. But because of the whole trans thing, I didn't take anything off, so I was still wearing my tank top, my t-shirt, my sweater, and my jeans."

"Binder too?" you ask in a contented murmur, still listening but lulled by the weed (from the party) and his voice and his fingers on your scalp.

"Fuck yeah, I was still wearing the binder! Anyways, so I'm in three and a half layers of too much bullshit, and Dave's apartment isn't air conditioned - we talked about that," he reminds you, as if he doesn't really need to, and you acknowledge, so he goes on. "I wake up sometime later, go to the bathroom, come back, we talk, long story short he figured out that I'm trans."

You make an intrigued noise. You try not to use words too much when your Karbro's telling a story, 'cause he doesn't like being interrupted, but noises are okay.

"I know!" Karkat says, digging his fingers especially hard into your scalp, and you moan. "I'm not sure whether to be fucking relieved or fucking pissed that he figured it out before I could tell him. Anyway, he convinces me to take some clothes off because heatstroke is a fucking bitch, then falls back asleep, then I fall back asleep. I wake up later because of a nightmare, nearly strangle my way out of my tank top and binder, and crawl back into bed in just my boxers to find Dave's having a wet dream."

You were about to ask about his nightmare when he finished his sentence and your voice died in your throat. You keep listening.

"About me," he adds.

Your mouth is a motherfucking venus flytrap - gaping and gaping with nothing to say.

"He woke up, we talked for a minute, and I, uh... sort of slept with him," he finishes.

You breathe and think and don't say anything just yet.

* * *

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and okay,  _now_  you're panicking.

Gamzee's stopped rubbing your feet. That's a bad sign if you've ever seen one. He doesn't like Dave, you know he doesn't, and now he's going to storm out in a rage without even so much as a "fuck you" to remember him by.

He shrugs your legs off his shoulders, rises puppetishly to his feet. You probably couldn't move even if you had enough brain function left to realise that you should.

He turns around, leans slowly in towards you, and his face is a deadly mask of say-that-again. You swallow hard.

"You fucked Dave?" he asks in a tone of deadly quiet.

You swallow again, lick your dry lips, nod jerkily. "Yeah."

For another second or seven, he just stays there, inspecting you like he's trying to figure out what size of jar he'll need for each of your facial features. Then, suddenly, his face splits into a grin.

"Hey, brother, that's motherfucking great!" he exclaims, and you wince at the sudden loud noise at such close quarters. Then he grabs your face and kisses you, all clumsy exuberance, and you squeak before he pulls away, still beaming bright enough to light up the whole planet.

"Uh... what?" you manage.

"Karbro, you've been pinin' after that motherfucker's skinny white ass since you first laid eyes on it," he says, still grinning. "Congrats on finally gettin' it!"

It takes a second for your brain to catch up with your mouth, which is unusual, to say the least. "... You don't like Dave," you point out finally.

Gamzee just shrugs, still grinning. "So?" he asks. "You do, so why do I give a motherfuck about him?"

You just stare. "Uh..."

"If he makes you happy, then it don't motherfucking matter if I like him, now does it?" he says, grin fading as he sees that whatever he's saying isn't getting through to you. "If he makes you happy, then you motherfucking stay with him, right, because he makes you happy. And if he makes you happy, then I'm motherfucking satisfied, and I won't do anything to him."

He pauses for a moment and considers something. "Of course, if he hurts you I'll be motherfucking pissed," he muses idly, and you know that his easy tone is masking the fact that being pissed in Gamzee-speak tends to mean rip-off-his-head, mash-his-brains-to-a-pulp-and-drink-them-through-his-nose pissed.

“Uh…” you say yet again, finding yourself incapable of anything more eloquent than that.

Gamzee breaks back into his grin. “God, I’m _so motherfucking excited for you!!!_ ” he practically squeals, picking you up in a rib-crushing hug and spinning you around. You fail to suppress a squeak, but it doesn’t matter. “My little Karbro’s finally got himself a boyfriend! We need to _motherfucking celebrate!_ ”

“No, Gamzee, you really don’t have to do anything –” you start, but he sets you down and dashes out of your room. You sigh, stretch out the crushed feeling from Gamzee’s hug, and pad after him.

You find him in the kitchen, clattering around and making enough noise to wake the dead – or worse, your dad. “Gamzee –” you hiss, and he whips around.

“I’m making you a pie,” he says, face positively radiant. “Where’s the motherfucking lard?”

You sigh again, pulling open the fridge. “Right where it always is, Gamzee, you should know that by now,” you murmur, pulling out the tub of lard and handing it to him. He snatches it from your hands and pries the lid off, tossing it haphazardly on the otherwise-pristine counter.

"Hey, give a brother some motherfucking tunes, wont'cha?" he asks, and you pick up your phone from the kitchen table where you left it, plug it into the cheapass dock on the windowsill, and press play.

* * *

You and Gamzee sharing a pie at a quarter to three in the morning is a surprisingly common occurrence. You didn't quite pay attention to what he put in it - strawberries and peaches or something? You aren't sure. Whatever it is, it's fucking magnificent, as always, and it's still warm from the oven and when you cut into it the goojey bits oozed out across the pan and it's like cuddling except for your mouth, like Gamzee's pies always are. You're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, eating your respective slices of mouthwatering heaven, laughing at each other's stupid jokes, with Shakira playing softly in the background, when from across the room your phone alerts you to an incoming text. You stand up and unplug it from the dock to answer.

_Is Gamzee with you?_

"It's Molly," you tell him, and he makes a face at the sound of his foster mother's name. "She wants to know if you're with me. You want to stay here tonight?"

He looks at you like you're the fucking Messiah. You smile and return your focus to the phone in your hand.

_YEAH. HE'S STAYING THE NIGHT. THAT OKAY?_

Molly takes an absurdly long time to reply. You're pretty sure she still hasn't gotten the hang of texting yet.

_That's fine. I wish you wouldn't type in all caps, it's unsettling._

She probably means obnoxious. You can't help but smile.

_GO THE FUCK TO BED, MOLLY. GAMZEE'S FINE. WE'RE EATING PIE._

_Pie? At this time of night?_

_DON'T ASK. GOOD NIGHT, MOLL._

_Good night, Karkat. Sleep well._

You return your phone to the dock and sit back down at the table to finish your piece of pie. Gamzee offers you another, and you'd say no, but it's just so good... oh, all right. Just one more, but then you're done.

The two of you end up eating the whole goddamn pie.

 


End file.
